A Lazy Day
by Politelycynical
Summary: ONESHOT: It only took one slow smile- one glimmer of crossed ankles standing across from her bedroom door with an innocent expression and an indecent proposal to make her forgo eight hours of slumber for something a bit more appetizing. Hermione/George. Happy Birthday, Courbeau!


**A Lazy Day**

 **By: politelycynical**

* * *

Hermione stood in the chilly hallway and collapsed against the wall. The wooden walls of the Weasley home felt comforting against her back. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom across from her, singing out its occupancy. Her nightshorts did little to protect her thighs from the morning air.

She was exhausted. The late nights and the early mornings were getting to her. It seemed rude to sleep in late while visiting someone else's home, but she felt that she soon might need to break one of her rules of etiquette. Christmas break was meant to be relaxing—to replenish her batteries for the final semester of her seventh year at Hogwarts, but she had been…distracted.

By what? By whom?

It was most certainly by the man that completely defined the word. His constant nuisances, teasing double entendres across the dinner table, and late night spontaneous adventures were without a doubt _distracting._

The previous evening she had hoped for some rest- for uninterrupted sleep in a warm bed, but it only took one slow smile, one glimmer of crossed ankles standing across from her bedroom door with an innocent expression and an indecent proposal to make her forgo eight hours of slumber for something a bit more _appetizing._

And being frantically pressed against a tree with its winter bark rhythmically eating into the thin material of her cotton tee shirt had done nothing for her aching back, even if it had been relaxing in its own way.

She jumped as the bathroom door opened and whisked her from her recollection of the night before. Horrified, she jerked her hand away from its traitorous trek across her hip bone and looked up guiltily—before feeling a warm intensity wash over her— _within_ her once again.

A cloud of steam poured out behind him, highlighting the firm planes of his silhouette.

His jeans were unbuttoned, and as he stepped into the hall, he had his shirt over his head, pulling it across his wet, messy hair. Soft, red, _touchable_ chest hair clung to his bronzed torso. It came to a point across his well-toned stomach and seemed to direct her gaze below his navel, to the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, and then lower to the top faintly visible outline of his -

"Morning." ," His voice was sin incarnate. It was a thunderous rumble that charged across the space between them and made her have to exercise every ounce of control she possessedignited a track of accelerant that traveled straight to her core. He pulled his shirt over his stomach, hiding it from her view— _but she knew. She knew…_

He smirked a little as he buttoned his jeans, his eyes not leaving hers. He was watching her watch him.

She tried to keep her tone even- measured. "Good morning, George." ," She whispered.

He hummed his response.

It took only two strides of his long legs to have her lifted partially off of the floor. His fingertips dug gently into the tender flesh of her thigh as his mouth greeted hers a good morning. His hand trekked up the back of her thighcreamy skin, and gave her bottom a very thouroughthorough squeeze before slipping under her white tee shirt and fingering the top of her waistband with only the pads of his fingers.

And throughout all of this she was putty. She was clinging to his shoulders and pulling her body up closer to his own. She was reveling in the peppermint taste of his tongue and the calloused caress of her curves.

His pointer finger dipped gently beneathebeneath the top of her cotton shorts. He grinned playfully at the gasp that escaped her lips. She felt embarrassed. He hadn't even properly touched her—but the anticipation…

Anticipation was everything. And he was a tease—they both knew it.

"Breakfast is ready!" Came a shout from the depths of the Burrow.

"Fuck." ," George cursed quietly, withdrawing his hand. She pushed the whiny groan that was threatening to escape deep down into her lungs. She could hear feet hitting the floor above them.

George pecked her on the cheek before making a swift exit down the creaky staircase. A second later—Ron and Harry rushed past her with barely a look.

As she quickly entered the bathroom and locked the door behind her, she thanked her lucky stars for the millionth time for the daft friends that she had. With one look in the mirror, she doubled that gratitude. Her nipples were hard against her shirt, her lips were bright red, her bottom was partially showing from the expertly executed fondling it had endured.

Yes—she was very lucky, indeed.

She hurriedly righted herself, brushed her teeth, and then slipped back up to her shared room to grab a bra and discard her robe. When she was sure that she was presentable enough to be around her surrogate family, she followed the wafting smells to the kitchen.

"Don't try sitting beside George, Hermione," Ron warned as soon as she appeared.

She looked at him guiltily, "Why would you think that I—"

"He rigged the chair somehow."

Oh.

A scan of the breakfast table revealed that the seat next to him was the only one left. He looked up at her innocently—a look that used to infuriate her, but now made her stomach clench and her thighs squeeze together.

Fred jumped in. "We didn't do anything to the chair, Granger. Ickle-Ronnikins made quite the scene—yelled something or another about his pants being on fire."

"Clearly his mind has been garbled from filling out reports all day at the Ministry. He's not the first to go off the deep end in our family. We have a—" George said, leaning his head on his propped up palm.

"Or perhaps he's simply taken up being an awful, mangy liar—trying to sully his dear brother's good name—"

"—cousin that used to squawk like a hippogriff whenever someone would mention interdepartmental memos, apparently it is an awful stress-induced symptom of boring, no-good party-poopery."

"LIES AND DECIET, I ask for proof, I tell you!" Fred slammed his fist down on the table in a way that reminded Hermione of a muggle lawyer in a murder trial. "Present your bottom for the judge, Ronald."

Ron clenched his jaw before slowly rising from his chair. The back of his pajama bottoms were singed and blackened. Harry snorted loudly into his pumpkin juice.

George covered his rather large grin with a hand. Fred's face remained scrunched up in denial. "Well you can hardly prove that my client is to blame for your misuse of your own clothing."

"Misuse? The chair ignited as soon as my—"

"Did you or did you not eat Ridgeback Red Chicken Wings last night at the Leaky?"

Ron's jaw dropped. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I rest my case." Fred nodded to George. "It is obvious to everyone at this table that you blew the back of your pants out from eating spicy food. It is also clear that you falsely accused poor George of chair-tampering, a high-class offense that has been banned from the breakfast table since the color-changing Percy incident of 1990. What say you, Judge?" He raised his eyebrows at Hermione.

"Solid argument, Mr. Weasley." She nodded. Ron threw up his hands angrily. She crossed the kitchen to the chair in question. George smiled kindly up at her and watched her intently as she hesitantly lowered herself. "However, further inspection is required before I make a ruling."

"Really, Hermione, don't—" Ron insisted.

As the backs of her thighs settled against the cool wood, she glanced sternly at him. "You have committed slander, Ronald. This chair is perfectly fine and in working order."

George clapped joyfully at the twitching artery that was bulging out of Ron's solid red forehead.

Ron took a deep angry breath before closing his eyes, "I despise all of you." He stomped up the stairs shortly after. Hermione almost felt a little bad about how often Ron was the butt, pun intended, of the jokes around the burrow. He was easy to piss off, and the twins often went out of their way to tease him.

It probably didn't help that they had occasionally taken to allowing Hermione in on the fun. She enjoyed the little outlet and the feeling of belonging, while the twins enjoyed the extra eggplant shade of purple that would graze their brother's face when she played along.

And while the jokes were great for a momentary burst of laughter, it was often overshadowed by the total guilt she felt afterwards when Ron would give her the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

Harry excused himself to go get ready for work. He and Ron had chosen not to attend Hogwarts for their seventh year, so while Hermione was on Christmas holidays, they were still required to go into work.

She supposed that she should really have an upfront conversation with Ron about how the jokes were all just for fun and –

His fucking fingers were crawling up her thigh. George's fingers had to be the most perfect on the planet. Calloused fingertips with excellent dexterity and a one-track mind behind them that was always teasing and twisting and _swirling_ and _bending_ -

She smiled kindly up at Molly as she sat a plate down in front of her. George's hand retreated slightly until his mother's back was turned.

He drug one blunt nail from her knee to her tender inner thigh.

 _Fuck yes._

When had she become this person? This kind of pervert what wasn't even the least bit horrified at being fingered under the breakfast table? While the logical part of her mind would regret it later on—part of her mind, the selfish deviant part, wished he would pretend to drop his napkin or something and get her off properly. Or say that he needed some help in the lab at the store and bend her over a work table for a few hours. Were these the kinds of thoughts that normal human beings had?

Ginny took her plate to the sink and said something about meeting up with Luna and Neville to discuss some girl that Neville had taken up with. Fred yammered on about inventories and the holiday rush. George's thumb betrayed the normal slow burn of insanity that was his normal technique and ground pointedly against her clitoris.

She banged her knee on the bottom of the table loudly.

Molly swished her wand, and the teapot placed itself in the sink.

Fred coughed loudly and followed his mother into the laundry room. "You overwork yourself, Mother— If you'd like, George and I can take care of the chores today. I'm sure Hermione wouldn't mind helping—"

As soon as they disappeared around the corner, George pulled the leg of her chair with his sneaker, spinning her towards him with a screech. He shoved her shorts and panties to the side and buried his digits to the knuckle into her— _swirling and rocking and curling them back just so._

" _Please—"_ She whispered.

"OR MOTHER—GEORGE COULD STAY AND DO THE CHORES BY HIMSELF, AND YOU AND I COULD WATCH OVER THE STORE FOR THE DAY." Fred said loudly as he followed Molly back through the living room.

She quickly twisted back around as George withdrew and wiped his wet fingers off on the hem of his shirt.

Molly tutted at Fred, "Why would I want to mill about your shop all day? I have groceries to buy and these clothes don't fold themselves, you know—Well, at least they don't until I tell them to."

George threw his arms up at Fred and mouthed, "Come on!" behind Molly's back.

Fred nodded, "Angelina is coming by today, she has been asking me the most curious questions about what I would name a child, and I am simply at a loss for words, Mother." Fred glared at George right before Molly rushed off to get her coat and purse.

"Wow." George said. "I didn't think you'd go there."

"You obviously owe me. For the day off and for the hell that I just stepped in. My sweet Merlin—What have I done?"

"I didn't tell you to bring up grandchildren. You could have told her there was a sale on yarn. _Amateur_."

"YOU OWE ME." Fred crossed his arms, and glared.

"Of course." George laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back into them. He crossed his ankles lazily out in front of him.

Fred glanced at Hermione. "You owe me too, Granger. I'm not blind, you _dirty_ _girl_."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Hermione took the first bite of her breakfast.

"Yeah, yeah." Fred called out as Molly yelled at him to hurry up from the front door.

They heart two distinct cracks a moment later. George cracked a large, uneven grin. "You have no clue how excited I am about today."

She reached towards him, "Me too."

"I haven't had a day off in ages," He exclaimed. She pulled back slightly and shifted in her sticky underwear. He was excited about having a lazy day at home? Had he forgotten what had just occurred? "I'm going to go change back into pajamas!" He scurried up the stairs, nearly knocking Harry over.

Hermione stared flabbergasted at the stairs as George disappeared. Harry and Ron called out that they were heading to work. She washed her plate in the sink and heard the fire flare up.

She sighed, listening for signs of life in the almost empty house. She stared out of the window across the early morning meadow. The grass was frosted over from the night before, the sun was beaming down diligently melting the ice. Molly's never-ending supply of laundry sat discarded in an armchair in the living room, waiting to be folded.

She silently began to fold it, huffing under her breath at George's sudden mood change. He was hard to read, and that bothered her. They had been fooling around since June—but had yet to do much else. It was torrid— something that she felt she needed after the war. A fling to keep her mind moving. Hushed and frenzied shagging to keep her ghosts away.

But she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to really be with him—to go out to dinner with him, or snuggle up with a book beside him. She often found herself daydreaming about him during the semester—thinking about how his laugh seemed to warm her up and the thrill that tore through her whenever he would give her a pointed look in a crowd.

She set the next load of clothing to begin scrubbing itself.

Part of her was frightened by these feelings because George was… unreliable. Maybe that was too harsh of a word—he was fleeting. She had seen him date numerous girls over the years, and occasionally break a heart or two with his short attention span. And those girls had _dated_ him. Hermione knew that she didn't even have that much of a hold on him, because so far their affair had consisted of gasps in the dead of night, and the occasional hand snaking up her skirt when no one was looking.

And she wasn't exactly his type, now was she? He often went after girls that worshipped him as if he were a god. He liked girls that fueled the fire of his ego and followed him around like a puppy.

And, of course, Hermione was certain he wasn't _her_ type. Absolutely not. Not even a little bit. Not at all.

She tried to shake the thoughts that had been plaguing her away.

 _Distracting._

 _He was just so very distracting._

She sat down on the couch and pulled out one of her text books. It would not do her well to dwell on these thoughts. It was what it was. He was a good time, and a nice post-war vacation from stress. And if he didn't feel _that way_ about her, then she wasn't going to think about it for another second.

After all, why should she care? She certainly didn't feel those things for him.

He appeared shortly after, with a large comforter slung over his shoulders. He had changed into a gray heather tee and a pair of blue and green plaid flannel lounge pants.

He tossed the blanket onto the couch and dropped his head into her lap. "Excellent." He said, cuddling his head against her thighs, his hot breath teasing her in a way that she was certain was intentional.

"I have a lot to do today." She told him reluctantly.

"Hardly." He spoke directly against her abdomen. "Besides, you're exhausted."

"I'm fine." She said firmly.

"I wasn't the only one that slept for a grand total of 3 hours last night. We both deserve a nap for all of the hard-work we've been putting in."

"Hard-work?"

"Sneaking around takes finesse—planning. Being your _orgasm champion_ is a full-time gig. Last night I almost didn't know if I would be able to go again, but I got my second wind—as soon as you wrapped your legs around me, I completely forgot about being sleepy."

"Poor boy," she replied dryly.

"You're demanding," he teased.

"I was going to bed last night!" She glared at him.

He turned over onto his back and looked up at her. "And this morning? In the hallway?"

"You mauled me."

"And at breakfast?"

"You're infuriating."

"I'm joking."

"Always. You're always joking," she spat.

"That's a very snippy tone you have there, Granger." He narrowed his gaze, the smile melting from his face. "I thought you were enjoying yourself earlier."

"I was." She closed her book with a huff and stood up defiantly. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

"Come on. This was supposed to be fun," he whined. "I had to trade days with Fred for this; I'm closing the store for the rest of the week."

"Well, have a very _relaxing_ day, George. Take a nap, have a snack, read a book—I'm going upstairs. I think I'll join Ginny in Diagon Alley. There's this girl that Neville has been seeing, and he's keeping her a total mystery from all of us and—" she trailed off as George shook his head angrily.

"I'm not really sure how I pissed you off within ten minutes of being home, but there's no need for you to make plans out of nowhere just to get away from me. I'll go in to work." He stood up and gave her a small hug.

"Is this enough for you?" She blurted out.

He blinked and sunk back down onto the couch.

"Screwing in the middle of the night—sneaking around. We've never been on a date."

"Hermi—"

"Because this isn't me, you know? I enjoy it—this," she gestured to the two of them, to his hands, to his body, " _How could I not?"_ she continued. "But I just can't help but think about how I'm just another one of those girls to you."

"What girls?" He drug a hand through his damp hair.

" _Those_ girls. The ones from school that you would date for a week before you got bored and moved on to the next skirt you saw."

"Good to know what you think of me, Granger." His jaw was hard set and tense.

"It's not an accusation. It's the truth." She tried not to back pedal. She needed to be firm about getting a straight answer out of him. "And if that's what you're going to do to me, then I just don't want to invest any of myself in to this."

"We've been seeing each other for six months."

"But are we dating?"

"Well, I – uh." He shook his head.

"So... no then?"

"No, I mean—"

"We're not."

"I didn't think you would want to. You know—with Ron and everything. This is all supposed to be a secret right?"

"Sure. Letting it be _real_ would complicate things." She spat.

Everything was devolving so quickly. And even though she had never meant to say anything about this to George—even though she had told herself that she felt nothing for that damn clown, she couldn't help but notice how it felt like he had just impaled her with a blade to the chest and painfully ripped her open.

"That's that then, I guess," she said quietly. She stood up and took a few steps away from him. Distance. She needed to get away from him.

"Wait—what?" George tilted his head.

"We're done then."

"With..?"

"This. With us. We're over." How could something hurt this badly? She felt hollow—broken. Beyond repair. And tired—so tired.

"You're breaking up with me?" George's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.

Hermione placed a hand on her forehead. " _What the hell_ , George? You just said—"

"That we weren't dating—I mean like, going out on dates. It's obvious that we haven't been out to dinner or anything." He turned her toward him and took her hand in his. "I took the day off to spend time with you, and now you're breaking up with me. This is... _awful_." He said, earnestly. His sea green eyes were penetrating—pleading.

"I'm not—I'm sorry."

He held her hand to his chest. His heart beat wildly against her skin. He stared at her bemused, waiting for her to continue. "You're _not_ breaking up with me? This seems like a really cruel joke, Granger—and I'm not really seeing how it's funny. Why would you _pretend_ to break up with me?" He eyed her suspiciously.

This conversation was ridiculous—it was backwards and convoluted. And she was tired—she was so, so tired.

"I wasn't. I didn't think that we were even… _together."_ She stepped closer to him. "I just needed to know that I mattered. That this isn't just-"

A smile crept slowly across his face as he reached up for her hips, his fingertips pressing gently in arcs across her skin. "Just sex? We've been together for six months." He bit his lip.

"You've never said—"

"I didn't think that I had to. What _exactly_ did you think was going on between us?"

She looked at him guiltily.

" _You_!" He smiled widely. " _You little minx._ You thought we were having some bawdy affair. Oh my god—No wonder you were _so horny_ all the time."

"Stop." She covered her face.

"That's why you wanted me to finger you at the breakfast table-" He laughed heartily. "Because it was so _dirty_ ," he whispered while raising his eyebrows in glee, "You wanted it to be scandalous."

She crawled beneath George's quilt in shame.

He did not relent. "You wanted to be fucked against a tree in the middle of winter."

"That wasn't my idea!"

"You wanted to be all proper in front of my family—perfect braid and a pressed pencil skirt- and then begged me to pull your hair while you blew me in the linen closet." She felt his hands grabbing at her through the blanket. "This is bloody fantastic!"

"George…" She groaned loudly and felt him shift. He had a knee resting on each side of her, the blanket felt tight around her, and she felt suffocated. She struggled to get out from under the quilt. His hands helped her fight her way free.

She sighed loudly at the unconcealed, mischievous joy that he was basking in.

His smile melted off of his face. "Of course, the other side of this conundrum is that I thought you liked me and that you were my girlfriend—and you didn't think that at all." He shook his head. "That's kind of disappointing."

"You never asked."

"I forget that you need everything to be formal and proper. I should have written you a letter or something." He grinned widely. "You're always so by-the-book, Except except of course when you're in the linen—"

"I'm so tired." She whined loudly.

"You're changing the subject."

She complained again— "Urrrrrrrrrrrrrghhh."

George laughed. "Alright, you're tired. I understand why—I feel like falling over."

He shifted and situated her in front of him. He draped the blanket loosely over them. She inched her rear back until her hips were nestled between his. "Hmmm." He hummed into her ear. "That's nice." He splayed his hands across her stomach and pulled her more firmly into him. "Do you want to take a nap?"

"Yes, please." She let her eyes drift closed, even as she was reaching behind her to remove her bra.

He whispered into her ear and stroked his fingers against her skin lightly. "Then afterwards we can mess around."

"Hmmm." She smiled. The darkness started to close in on her.

"And then after _that_ unofficial, reckless orgasm with your best friend's older brother—you know, just _some guy,_ right? Then I can ask you to actually be my girlfriend—but where will I ever find a notary on such short notice?."

"George." She warned weakly.

"I don't know if the sex will be as good, but I have a good feeling that we will both feel much more secure about the whole thing."

"Shut up and go to sleep, you idiot."

"Sweet dreams, love."

"Hm."

* * *

"Merlin, you feel so great." His hand pulled at her hip, pleasing her bottom firmly against him. She could feel the outline of his cock against her shorts. His fingertips were toying with the exposed seam of her panties.

She nodded and pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Shhh."

"We've been asleep for hours. It's eleven." He whispered. He gathered her hair and eased it behind her shoulder. He placed small kisses up the exposed column of her neck.

"Whispering is not the same thing as being silent." She teased. She pulled at his wrist gently prodding him to touch her.

"Yes, Hermione?" His feather light fingertips drummed across her inner thigh. "Did you need something?"

"Finish what you started earlier." She kept her eyes closed.

"That was hours ago."

"Yes, and you didn't finish—you didn't even try." She growled.

His chuckle rumbled against her. "I was tired—wasn't thinking straight." He reasoned, his fingers creeping up to her waistband. "But I'm not tired now." He drug his middle finger under the elastic from hip bone to hip bone.

"Oh fuck." She breathed out, her eyes snapping open. She pushed at the blanket and watched his long fingers play at her shorts.

"What a mouth you have on you, Granger." He lightly pet the small satin bow of her panties. "I thought you were a well-behaved lady."

"George," she pled, rocking her bottom against him.

He groaned. "Tut-tut-tut. None of that. Proper women are patient. Can you be patient, Hermione?"

She nodded.

"Can you follow orders?" He whispered against the lobe of her ear sternly.

"Yes. Please- yes. Of course." She felt crazy. Why did he make her feel so crazy?

"We'll see." He flicked his tongue out and pulled the lobe of her ear into his mouth as he drug the pad of his thumb lightly across the soft cotton of her panties. His touch was so light that she was uncertain if it had even happened at all.

He hooked his thumb up over her waistband, "So you can watch." He whispered.

She was so still—so quiet. She watched the tendons in his hand contract and relax as he swirled gently across the tops of her thighs. His middle finger dipped down, gliding across the sticky middle seam of her panties.

"Hn." She watched intently.

"What was that?" His hand stopped.

"Nothing. I didn't say anything." She turned slightly and looked at him innocently.

He hummed suspiciously, and pulled his hand out of her shorts. She stayed as quiet as a mouse. "Turn around."

She carefully rolled over to face him.

"You're so well-behaved, Miss Granger." He whispered. He had a stern, dark look in his eyes. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and his tone was unyielding. His hair was sticking up at all kinds of angles from their nap, but his demeanor was firm—inflexible. He slid her shorts down her slender thighs and then slipped his hand below her bottom and hooked her leg up onto his hip.

She smiled widely. "You think you're going to get what you want, hm?" he asked, grinning at her.

She bit her lip.

He gently slid his finger up against the lips of her labia once again, above the thin material of her panties, but just barely pressing against her—just barely easing her apart—just barely driving her insane.

"You think I'm just going to give in to you—like a pushover, like I'm your _boyfriend_ or something."

She narrowed her eyes at the wide, open grin that instantly appeared on his face as his _joke_ tumbled from his lips. His teeth gleamed as he drug his tongue across them.

He eased her knee back down and hooked three fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling gently. "You think I'm going to let you ride my hand until you're flushed pink and gasping, hmm?" He sat up and slid them down her legs, turning her on her back in the process and returning to her poised further down her body, looking up at her from her belly button. His fingers swirled outside of her, occasionally whisping across her slit, pausing at her heat before leaving her once again.

"You think…" He started again, his grin never leaving his face. Had she ever been this wet before? This slick? She felt like she was a puddle—liquid and gushing and wound so tight and hot and she needed something soon or she would break. She would shatter. Maybe she wanted to shatter—wanted George to make her shatter. Or shudder... Maybe she wanted both. "You think that I'm just going to sink into you—" He slid one digit in to the first knuckle.

Her body trembled violently.

"That I'm going to slowly push in—" He crept further in. "And that I'm going to give you what you need. What is it that you need, Hermione?" He asked, watching her intently.

"More." She whispered back without pause.

"More?" He eased back out, swirling along the swollen wall within her during his retreat. Then he held up a 'two' in the air, raised his eyebrows at her before easing back in. Slowly. Always slowly.

He was a tease. He was a menace driving her crazy—completely insane with his _swirls_ and his smiles. And she knew that if she just waited—he would have her arching up off of the couch and begging and whimpering. It would all be worth it. But she was so wet—and so tense.

He brushed the pad of his thumb across her sensitive bud, and for a second she glanced down and saw his hand between her legs and groaned loudly. She was sure she hadn't ever being so incredibly turned on by the sight of being touched, but she loved seeing his slender fingers manipulating her. George had instilled that thrill into her.

He pulled back just as slowly—rubbing the ridges along her inner walls, pressing lightly—rhythmically—with his thumb.

"George," she gasped quietly. "Please." Her skin felt hot and the liquid heat within her was lapping at the edges of her sanity- begging for release. Everywhere he touched was sensitive—flushed and electric—and she just needed him so badly.

He nodded at her, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He leaned in and kissed along the lower expanse of her stomach. Her head dropped to the couch as she sighed loudly in relief. His hand started to rock more firmly—just a little at first. With each undulation, she felt him beckon with his finger tips and brush against a glorious part of her that was swollen and spongy within.

And his thumb—of fuck, his thumb- was rocking steadily against. His callouses were dragging across her sticky flesh as he pressed down sporadically.

And his lips were biting and nipping at her lower belly, breathing warm heat against her exposed flesh.

His other hand pushed gently at the lower parts of her stomach, forcing his fingers deeper somehow- making him press callouses—fuck yes callouses, yes—deeper into her, dragging texturally within her, and she was gone. She couldn't think—

It just so much—

And he pumped and prodded and was biting at her hip bone. And his thumb- oh fuck—She wouldn't mind spending her life under the will of that thumb- on the brink of hot, liquid insanity. And his tongue was suddenly upon her, sucking hard on her nub—while his fingers were pumping and curling and touching her so deeply, and she couldn't remember him putting her legs up on his shoulders, but they were there and the heels of her feet were pushing on his back. And he was jerking her further down the couch with one strong arm, his forearm holding her tightly as he nipped and sucked and his hands fucked her so expertly—so beautifully.

And she snapped.

And she was alive.

And she was yelling and begging and arching and he was laughing against her skin, because she couldn't form an intelligent thought. Her hips were pressed firmly up against his mouth, and his laughter was practically within her. His tongue lapped at her pulsating heat, soothing the tense stimulation of her muscles, bringing her back down from oblivion gradually.

And she was liquid.

* * *

"Why do they even put the orange popsicles in the box?" George whined as he held the popsicles up to find a red one. "They should just throw those away at the grocery store. I only want the cherry ones."

Hermione smiled at him from her spot on the counter. Her legs were still shaky and she could occasionally see a muscle spasm cascade across her thigh.

George dug around in the box and held the treat in front of the sunlight. "Purple? Fucking purple, Granger."

"I know. It's a tragedy. Give me the purple one." She reached out her hand, not bothering to get closer to him near the charmed cooling cabinet. They both knew she couldn't walk just yet. Not after that.

He smirked at her outstretched hand. He stepped between her knees and held a hand behind her neck, pulling her lips gently to his, running one warm hand up her nearly bare side, playing with the strap of her bra before smoothing back down to ease over her hip.

She hummed into his mouth and smiled widely against his lips. His tongue darted out and drug ever so slightly across the front of her teeth—

She shrieked loudly as he touched the grape flavored ice against the small of her back. "Georrrggee." She whined loudly. "Why would you betray me?"

He laughed loudly. "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry!" She pointed at his face. "This is not the face of someone who is sorry."

George quickly shifted into a somber expression, hiding his smirk behind a feigned look of confusion. His dimples that normally foretold of evil-deeds-to-come smoothed out and became camouflaged by his untraceable, countless freckles. But his eyes- they betrayed everything. There was a glint deep in their aquamarine depths that told her he would touch the coldness to her again if she let her guard down.

So she went on the offensive.

She eased her hips forward and pulled him down for another kiss. She licked his mouth and wrapped her legs around his narrow hips. She ran her hands up his ribcage, across his erect nipple and then turned his head so that she could kiss up to his ear.

"Are you my boyfriend now, George?"

He chuckled. "I hope so."

"Before its official though."" She let her tongue curl its way up the shell of his ear. "One last request if you don't mind."

She felt him nod, as his fingertips dug into her hips and his groin jerked suddenly towards her own, grinding hard in his excitement before he got it back under control a moment later.

She slid forward until her body eased off the countertop. She let every inch of her body touch him-plains sliding across valleys and peaks- before she settled on the ground. She held his hand and led him to the kitchen table. "It's a good height, isn't it?" She laid her hand on the well-worn wood of the Weasley family dinner table. "It's perfect." She whispered, looking at him over her shoulder. She unhooked her bra.

He watched her with a fiery intensity burning in his eyes.

She continued, "And what I like the most about the idea of you fucking me against this table…" She smiled as a whimper poured out of him. "Is that it's all I'll think about at every breakfast—every Sunday dinner." His hands started caressing up her sides. One dipped down to grab a generous handful of her bottom. "I won't be able to concentrate on what anyone else is saying—Only the thought of you behind me, thrusting with everything you've got."

"Oh fuck yes." He growled into her ear, his hands urging her gently to ascend onto the wooden surface.

She crawled up on all fours. "So do you want us both to be up here or-" She squealed as George grabbed her hips firmly and pulled half of her off of the table. He positioned her so that she was bent against the table, her bottom up in the air, and her breasts pressed firmly against the surface.

"Like this." He insisted as he jerked her panties down roughly. "Everything I have, right? No holding back?"

"As hard as you can."

"Are you ready?" She could hear him fussing with the drawstring on his pajamas—could hear the soft cotton getting pushed to the floor.

"Yes. _Yes_. Now. Come on. Right now." She rattled off quickly.

She glanced over her shoulder and watched him position his cock at the threshold. She could see his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. His hips plunged forward and for a few moments she saw nothing but blackness and bursts of color darting across her field of vision. And she could hear things- she could hear deep grunting and skin slapping skin. And she could feel him so deeply within her. And she could smell him in the air around her—permeating into her core—into her soul—into her mind.

And the world was rushing back to her. George was whispering things—things about perfection, about tight fits, and about his love—all about his love. And he was drilling so hard against her, so deeply into her—

His hands were clutched on her hips, his powerful strokes nudging her up the table, and his firm grip pulling her back down—over and over, like tides rushing the coast.

How had she not known before? How had she not realized?

And he was sliding so smoothly within her because she was soaked. Her body had always welcomed his so easily—had gotten so wet for him. It barely took anything, she reminded herself. Just a look and her panties were ruined. He was powerful in that way. It was like he was magnetized and she was metal and there was no resisting him because the two of them were meant to be together. It was the nature of magnetism, it was the nature of them.

He loved her.

 _And she was realizing something-_

He lifted her pelvis off the table, pulling her up to meet him at every thrust.

 _-something bizarre and frightening and great—_

She was crying out because he was aligned so perfectly—every motion was sending waves across her body, her arms no longer had it in them to help support this endeavor.

 _It was something that she had been denying, but not anymore—_

She could feel her body clamping down around him. She could hear him groan loudly. His hips were erratic, his rhythm was falling out of sync as she spasmed again and again and moaned loudly—breathlessly.

 _It was the reason why thinking that she wasn't_ his _had been hurtful because—_

"Oh fuck!" He cried out, laying his wet chest against her back, his forearm coming into view as he held himself up.

 _Because…_

"I love you, George." She breathed it out—barely able to speak because she was still shaking all over.

He pulled back and helped her sit up on the edge of the table. She met his eyes nervously.

"Good."

She glared at him.

"I mean—I love you too. I figured it was obvious," he said quickly.

"Uh huh," she said uncertainly, eyeing him dangerously. Her eyes caught movement behind him.

Molly Weasley – Traveling had just clicked into place on the clock.

"Your mother is on her way home."

The next moments were a flurry of clothes being summoned, tables being sanitized, and folding charms being thrown haphazardly at piles of laundry.

* * *

"You should send this in to Witch Weekly, Mum." Fred gushed as he helped himself to another slab of pork roast. "I honestly feel sorry for people who aren't your children."

Ron nodded across the table. "Yeah—what do they eat?"

Harry agreed loudly.

George met her eyes and smiled, drumming his fingers lazily on the table.

Hermione felt her breathing hitch.

* * *

Word count: 6948

Happy Birthday, Courbeau! Sorry that it's months late.


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